The Adventure of the Inexperienced Lovers
by Thil
Summary: John and Sherlock are inexperienced as a couple and Greg ends up helping them navigate their relationship in a lot more ways than he ever thought possible.
1. Chapter 1

Chapter 1

 _He raced across the roof-top after the killer and he was closing in fast. He could almost touch him, but then the murderer took a giant leap across a gap between two houses. Losing his footing, he skidded to a stop and cursed. He could not make that jump, he would lose him. Taking out his Browning, he took aim and -_

"Boring!" Sherlock yelled and threw another folder into the flames.

John flinched and put down the thriller he had tried to get into for the last half hour. Sherlock ripping old files to shreds and throwing them into the fire melodramatically while commenting on their banality also hadn't helped him get into it. At present, he felt the urge to commit the paperback to the flames as well.

"You remember this one, John, with the moronic husband who..." His phone vibrated. John looked at Sherlock expectingly.

"Yes! Text from Lestrade about a murder-suicide on the South Bank." Sherlock had been bored out of his mind all evening and could hardly restrain himself from jumping up and down while he rushed to put on his coat.

"John, come on," he yelled while pounding down the stairs. Sighing, John shrugged into his jacket and followed Sherlock. The detective already stood at the kerb flagging down a cab.

"Hopton Street," Sherlock announced as he sorted his long limbs into the back seat and waited for John to get in as well. In the darkness, he watched the lights reflect on Sherlock's angular features while they were speeding through the city, towards their next case.

Their cab stopped. They could already glimpse the yellow tape. Sherlock hopped out of the cab and strode off toward it. John sighed and reached for his wallet. He leaned forward and asked the cabbie "How much do we you?"

"'Bout 17 quid" he said. John gave him a twenty, thanked him, and made after Sherlock. At the barrier, he was held up by an officer he didn't recognize.

"Sorry, you can't come in here now," the young woman said, apologetic but determined.

"I'm John Watson. I work with Sherlock Holmes," he told her.

"It's okay, Mel, just let him through," he heard Greg holler. "Good to see you, John."

"Hello," John smiled. He cordially shook hands with Greg, who was in a suit and looked more exhausted and worn out than usual. He quickly pulled Greg close to him in a half hug and whispered in his ear: "Thank you. You saved our sanity, I owe you one."

"No problem," Greg whispered back. John smelled a hint of cigarettes. His breath ghosted across John's ear and made him shiver a bit. They broke apart and John nodded down the street where the forensic team milled about.

"So, what's this, then?"

Greg led him to another cordoned off area. Sherlock was already in it, crouching over two bodies. John saw a man and a woman on their backs on the asphalt, both of them very dead. Sherlock was in his element, John could tell from the way he carried himself.

John got closer and did his share of observing. The woman was middle aged and brown-skinned. She was sprawled on her back in an evening dress of startling azure blue. The elegant wrinkles were artfully arranged to obscure her pudgy waist. She had bled extensively from a chest wound, not quite in the heart. She had probably died fairly quickly. John couldn't help but look at her face which was frozen in an expression of surprise. Her eyes were still wide open.

The man was older. His white hair set off the contrasting gash of a bullet wound on his right temple. He had fallen down face first and his head lay turned to the right. His arms were sprawled out in front of him. There was a Glock next to his right hand, but he was not holding it. The unlucky fellow was wearing a tuxedo, expensive-looking. The couple probably had a night out, and they weren't poor, either. That was about as far as John got.

~ Sherlock ~

Sherlock checked the man's coat pockets and his jacket.

Right tux pocket: Two ticket stubs (Tate, dated today). Coat pocket: cigarettes in expensive metal case (Marlboro), lighter, a clip-purse complete with credit card, debit card, driver's license and about 80 pounds of cash. Watch (Rolex) on his right wrist. Ring, too (still intact). Nicotine stains on the left thumb, fore and middle finger.

The woman: elegant hair-do (Elnette hair spray, professionally done); pearl necklace with matching earrings (real pearls, slight irregularities), perfume (Dior), bespoke dress (silk), coat (fur). Ring (matched the man's, married), nails polished, no chipping). Shot at close distance. He patted her down and looked inside her coat pockets. Nothing.

Sherlock rose and searched the ground around the pair, glance darting here and there. "Have you found anything? Did she carry a purse?" he inquired.

"Yes," Lestrade answered. He procured the article which was already in an evidence bag. ID (Marita Carson), club membership, leaflet from the Tate, some charity thing, dated next month. No credit cards, no money.

"What do you think?" Lestrade asked him.

"The man did not shoot himself. He's left handed." He glanced at John and Lestrade. "This is a double murder." Suppressing a smile, he turned towards them. "I've seen everything I need to see. Have the files sent over."

"Wait, that's all?" Lestrade asked.

"Yep."

"Really?"

Sherlock frowned. Lestrade was starting to annoy him.

"Someone tried to make it look like he shot himself in the head. That's all I can tell you right now. I need more data." Sherlock turned toward John. "John, get a – "

But Lestrade protested: "Seriously? That's it? Usually you're a bit more helpful than that. Nothing to observe?"

"You want more observing? Fine."

Sherlock gave him a careful once-over. Then he stepped into his personal space and sniffed. "You've been staying at a hotel for the past four to five nights. You're not using your regular aftershave, but a cheap generic foam that is issued complimentarily at lower-end hotel chains. You slept at the office for some time before that. Your gait is different so as not to disturb the muscles in your lower back."

"Sherlock," John warned. They had gathered a small crowd.

"The mattress at the hotel is also not helping alleviate the symptoms. You usually clip your nails on the weekend; their current length indicates a deviation from your routine. Your shirt has been to the dry cleaners. You usually iron them yourself, at home – yes, you, not your soon to be ex-wife. Your skin also shows clear signs of – "

~ John ~

"That's enough," John snapped. "Can't you tell when it's no use beating a dead horse?"

Sherlock looked at him thoughtfully and John speculated that he wasn't familiar with the idiom and presumably thought up an experimental setting in which equine tissue would play a major role. "Oh, for God's sake, Sherlock, just shut up."

Greg bit his lip. "Are you finished?" he asked, a slight quiver in his voice, which he tried to suppress with defiance.

"No, but John told me to stop."

"Fine. Thanks for nothing."

Greg turned around on his heel and stalked off down the street. John shot Sherlock an exasperated look. "You prat, he just did us a favor. Try to be a bit more sensitive."

"How did he do us a favor?"

"I texted him earlier, asking if he had something on for us. You were building up to a massive sulk all evening. So you should be thanking him for letting you in on this."

"It's not even a three," Sherlock muttered.

"What? Come on, it was nice thing to do. He's having a hard enough time as it is."

Sherlock scuffed his boots on the street. "He can stay with us," he finally said, instead of an apology (Lord knew those were rare). "He hates spending money but he's too proud to ask for help."

John mulled this over a bit. Yes, that seemed like something Greg would do. "I'm going to go talk to him," he thumbed in the direction the DI had walked off to. "You stay here and try not to make anyone cry, okay?"

John caught up with Greg, who was leaning against a doorway, having a smoke. John joined him there. "Sorry about Sherlock," he said.

"Yeah, sure," Greg answered, taking a deep drag. His face seemed impassive, but worn.

"No, really. Sorry. He was out of line."

"It's not your fault. It's just the way he is." Greg replied with a sigh. "Just caught me at a bad moment, that's all."

"I'm also sorry about how things went between Jodie and you."

"It's okay. Thanks, John. I just couldn't stay there anymore. She'd never leave on her own account, I had to. And Sherlock is right, the hotel is shitty. I'm looking for something more permanent, eventually. Things... are pretty final."

"I'm so sorry, Greg. You want to grab a pint and tell me what happened?"

John's face radiated sympathy.

Greg found he fancied a cool beer and an open ear very much.

When Greg and John walked back to the crime scene to join the others, Sherlock was nowhere to be found. "The git left without me," John muttered. He should be used to Sherlock taking off like that by now, but he still felt left behind. They drove over to NSY where Greg had to file a short report before his shift ended. While John waited for Greg he texted Sherlock.

 _Where did you run off to?_

 _Getting some things. SH_

 _Going to grab a pint with Greg. Feel free to join us._

 _Busy. Bring him home with you. He can't afford the hotel. He'll need the money for a good lawyer. SH_

 _How do you know that?_

Two smart leather shoes came into John's view and he looked up.

"Ready?" Greg asked. "I could kill for a burger."

They left NSY and finally, at around half past twelve, they were ensconced in a booth at the pub. They placed in their order before the kitchen closed and devoured two delightfully unhealthy burgers with gusto. After that, pints just kept appearing in front of them. And John just listened and let Greg rant.

"She cheated on me. With her fucking yoga instructor. For four months. And the best thing is, she isn't really sorry about it. She blames me, because apparently I neglected her." Greg had done a good job of keeping his anger in check. _He had behaved so professionally at work that John hadn't even noticed that he was this upset._ "I don't even know her anymore. I..." He scrubbed his face with his hands. "I can't do this anymore. This is not the first time this has happened. I overlooked it then. But I don't even feel at home there anymore, it's like coming home to a stranger every night. And I took nights off work, to do something together, but she was busy, too, she said. I imagine screwing that guy's brains out is a tough schedule to keep..." Greg took a great gulp of beer. "I hate leaving home. I just want my own bed, not that unbearable hotel mattress. My back is killing me. I hate this. I hate being like this. Exiled."

John felt bad for Greg.

"You know, you could always stay with us," he offered.

"Nah, I wouldn't want to impose. Appreciate it, though. I'm fine."

The dark circles under his eyes were telling another story, though.

"You're not fine. I don't need Sherlock's observational skills to see that."

"Well, I'll be fine, then." Greg scowled and leaned back in the booth.

"In fact, Sherlock suggested it first."  
"That so?"

"Yes, in his way, of course. He said you're thrifty and you hate pouring money down the drain, and since you'll have to get a lawy – I mean, you would want to be more careful, and pffff..." John made a rude sound with his lips. He took another sip of beer. Greg shook his head and huffed.

"The bottom line is, though, we'd both like you to stay with us. And Sherlock may be unable to say it in a non-Sherlock, non-offensive way, but I guess he wants to help out. And I..." John looked down into his empty beer glass and then directly at Greg. "I want you to because you're my friend. And friends give friends a place to crash when they get screwed over by their bitch of a wife who can't even tell what a great bloke she threw away." John had worked himself into a bit of a rage there and was surprised by his invective and the accidental compliment he had given Greg. Deciding to ignore that it had happened, he signaled the barkeeper for two more pints. "Besides, you'll be utterly pissed when we're done here. And I'm a doctor with a secret hangover remedy, which is at home."

Greg laughed involuntarily and then sighed. He drained his glass and accepted the new one. "All right, then."


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

~ Greg ~

They stopped at Greg's hotel to check him out and get the overnight bag, which was all he had been able to pack after the fight. They decided to walk to Baker Street. John looked a bit wobbly on his legs, but Greg knew he could hold his liquor. The fresh air was clearing both their heads a bit.

"Do you still love her?" John asked, as an afterthought to the conversation.

Greg thought about it. "I don't know." He smoked another cigarette while walking silently beside John.

"Hold on." John fumbled in his pocket for the keys. "Jesus, slippery fuckers." He opened the door and placed his hand on Greg's back, who was suddenly shy about entering. "In you go. 221B at your service."

He clicked on the light in the familiar hallway. Greg smelled musty wallpaper, wood, strong cleaners and whatever Mrs. Hudson had cooked up – was that shepherd's pie? It felt right being here, at Baker Street. He felt calm for the first time in weeks. John went ahead of him at the stairwell. Greg followed and couldn't help but notice his firm buttocks in navy trousers. They were right in front of him and looked delicious. Greg felt the sudden urge to grab and squeeze. Hell, how much did he have to drink? Thinking about molesting poor John was just not on. Even though he did have a fantastic arse. Too bad he played for the other team.

Greg forced his gaze unto the stairs before him, which was a good idea because they turned out to be a bit of a challenge. At the entrance to John and Sherlock's flat, John got out of his shoes and Greg tried to emulate him. He had a bit of trouble with the laces on his leather shoes. Suddenly, he felt silly, standing there is his suit, fumbling around with his knots like a five-year-old and giggling uncontrollably while he lost his balance. John laughed back at him and held out an arm to steady Greg. Light was pouring out of the living room. John entered before him.

"Sher... Oh dear God, what is this?" He heard John say. John had nearly fallen into a bunch of boxes standing right behind the door. Greg squeezed into the living room behind him. Sherlock was curled up on his chair near the fireplace, reduced to embers now. He was reading a book and looked up at them nonchalantly.

"Sherlock, what is this?" John repeated.

Sherlock eyed the boxes and then the two men like they were utterly stupid.

"Lestrade's things. Obviously."

"Wha – " Greg was slow on uptake, understandably. He was a bit sloshed. He inspected the boxes more closely. The three in front of him were labeled:

GREGORY TROUSERS

GREGORY SHOES

GREGORY SHIRTS

She only called him Gregory when she was cross with him. "Gregory, please pick up your clothes." "Gregory, you forgot to reserve a table." "Gregory, your mother called..."

"How did you get them, Sherlock?" John wanted to know.

"I broke into your apartment."

"You broke into my apartment?!" Greg yelped.

"Don't worry, your wife wasn't home. Very convenient. She put most of your clothes in boxes. Solid indexing, too."

A small, hot ball of hatred formed in Greg's belly at the efficiency with which Jodie was apparently shoving him out of her life. She had even used the label maker. John grasped his shoulder in sympathy, but he had the decency not to say anything while Greg's vision clouded a bit around the edges and he tried to compose himself. He breathed in deeply and exhaled slowly.

"I need the bathroom," Greg muttered.

"Oh, sure. It's right over there," John pointed to a door on the other side of the kitchen. As he shuffled off to the loo, he could hear John quietly speaking to Sherlock. He made out the words and "flat" and "stupid" and Sherlock's rumbling baritone replied something with "scratches" in an indignant tone. But right now, this was just too much to process. And Greg had had a lot of beer.

~ Sherlock ~

Sherlock sprawled elegantly in his armchair, wearing a dark suit and a crisp white shirt which emphasized his slim physique. One arm was slung around his knee which he had pulled up to his chin. The old files he had disturbed in his earlier fit of boredom were still sprawled around him. It had certainly been an informative excursion, having seen Lestrade and his soon-to-be-ex-wife's shared habitat. The state of the flat had spoken to him elaborately about the state of their relationship, all the little clues pointed the way to the door for Lestrade (whose lock incidentally had been alluring to pick; uncommon model, six pins, satisfying click, 1:47).

Sherlock uncurled and stretched lazily. He let the book drop to the floor carelessly ('Idioms of the English Language'). It was rubbish, but he had been wondering about the horse thing. John stopped staring at the mass of boxes like it would dematerialize them and turned to Sherlock. Red spots across his cheeks, slightly pink ears, eyes sparkling with a strange mixture of excitement, adoration and worry.

"You know, breaking into a DI's flat is a phenomenally stupid thing to do," he chided halfheartedly.

"No one saw me. I never leave scratches."

"No one saw you carrying a dozen boxes out of a building? Come on."

"Could have happened. But maybe I'm a friend and Lestrade could have given me a key and permission."

"Of course," John said, mocking his tone. "It was a bit stupid, nonetheless." Sherlock pretended to inspect a speck on his trousers and shrugged. "It was also a very nice thing to do." John sauntered over to him.

"Was it."

John sat on the arm rest and stroked Sherlock's hair, then his cheek, which felt amazingly tender. "Yes, it was. Here's your reward." John leaned into Sherlock's space and kissed him softly on the lips. Sherlock swayed into his caress.

"You do care, you know," John whispered into his ear like a secret, still stroking his hair and neck.

Sherlock made noncommittal noise and gave John a peck on the lips. He darted his tongue across them. John's breathing quickened.

"You are inebriated," Sherlock remarked. He licked his lips which tasted of John and a slight tang of hops and peat. "You had Guiness and whiskey. Laphroaig."

"Yes, I have. It was lovely and I regret nothing," John smiled. "I think he needed that." he pointed his chin in the direction of the bathroom. "Can you imagine how he feels right now?"

"No," Sherlock said, honestly meaning it. Emotions were still a minefield for him to navigate.

"Well, dreadful, I imagine." After a pause, John added: "Just imagine I threw you out of our shared flat and out of my life for some other dickhead."

Sherlock contemplated that for a moment and came to the obvious conclusion: "They'd never find his body." His arm tightened around John's waist possessively.

"That's reassuring. Sort of," John grinned, and pulled Sherlock into a tight hug. Sherlock buried his nose in John's jumper and breathed him in. John. His doctor disentangled himself after a bit and got up, still slightly unsteady. "Whew, you're right, I am pissed. D'you want something? I need water and aspirin or I'll be dead come morning."


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

~ Greg~

Greg entered the bathroom. It was rather minimalist: a bath tub with a blue shower curtain, some towels draped haphazardly about, toilet seat up. This was clearly an all-boy bathroom. He unzipped and had a good long piss. After, he washed his hands and his face and stared at his reflection in the mirror. John was right, he looked miserable. How had his life turned around so completely? Greg had thought he was on a good track. He had had everything in order. He was healthy, he had an engaging job which paid well and kept him on his toes. A long-term relationship had morphed into something more. Jodie and Greg had been friends first, then lovers. They had given each other comfort and a proper home to go home to instead of a lonely apartment and TV dinners – which Greg had thought he was in for for the rest of his life.

Most couples he knew made all sorts of compromises in order to keep each other company. Greg never felt like he had to try hard with Jodie. Everything just clicked into place. A blonde, sexy woman who had a very cynical sense of humour which a lot of other blonde, sexy women would cringe at in disgust. It had helped him through a lot of the bad cases. She laughed in the face the of the horrors he had witnessed with defiance. Jodie took his problems seriously, but made inappropriate cracks at them and thus kept them at bay, like in the Harry Potter movies when the students had to do this charm that would morph their worst fear into something ridiculous. Jodie loved those movies and made Greg watch them all. And he had grown to like them, too, her enthusiasm contagious. It was kind of what she did. She had even read the books, and she never hid them in the bedroom or some wayward bookshelf, they were right out in the living room were every visitor could see. Jodie would never hide something she liked. She wasn't ashamed of reading children's books and genuinely didn't care what people thought about her.

In fact, she was unapologetic about many things; like screwing around. Jodie had always been very confident about her sexuality. It used to be quite a turn-on for Greg. If she had just said outright "Greg, this isn't enough for me, I need more, I want adventure, I want something you cannot give me" he would have made it work. Instead she had not told him and gone behind his back. She hadn't even given him a chance. And this is what hurt Greg most of all: the lack of trust. She probably didn't even feel the need to apologize because she did not feel sorry. At all. In her world, it probably seemed OK to just take what she wanted without considering other people's feelings. And she hadn't thought about him one bit. It fucking hurt.

The first two nights in his office, he had cried. After that, Greg had tried to numb himself with work. But now, seeing the boxes, spelling "Gregory"... What was she thinking? She hadn't even given him a chance to communicate. He hadn't been angry with her all week, but now he was livid. Talking to John had loosened a knot. How could she just pack him up into boxes already? She seemed to have no qualms about him leaving at all. Maybe she was even glad to be rid of him. Or worse: She didn't care at all. She had distanced herself so far that telling "Gregory" to get his stuff out of the flat would probably be uttered in the same tone in which she told him to drop his socks into the hamper instead of the floor, treating it like a daily occurrence. Fuck that. This wasn't worth sharing anymore.

At least he still had friends. Well, some at least. The fact was, since he met Jodie, he hadn't found the time to meet many of his old friends. But colleagues did count, right? Greg's casual acquaintances from university had slowly been eliminated by a demanding job that didn't care for regular hours. Most of his friends were on the force with him and they met up after work because it was convenient. John had told him he considered him his friend, which he hadn't said out loud ever before. Greg was glad. He regarded John very highly. He was easy to like, always friendly and forgiving, but also took no shit from anyone, especially not from Sherlock, which commanded some respect. He exuded a quiet confidence that everything was under control, even when it clearly wasn't; but when John was around, there was hope. And he seemed to like Greg in return.

Did Sherlock feel the same way about him? He never let on much. He couldn't even remember his first name, for crying out loud, though Greg was almost sure he did that just to annoy him. In his way, he was important to Sherlock, though as an actual person or only as a lifeline that dragged him out of endless seas of ennui and unto the exotic islands of interesting cases, he didn't know. Maybe he was just a means to an end to the detective. But he had known Sherlock for a long time now, longer than John, and he had seen the occasional crack in his facade. When he had still been using regularly, there had been times ... But Greg pushed that thought out of his mind quickly. Now was not the moment. He sighed and unlocked the bathroom door to return to his... friends.

When he emerged into the kitchen John greeted him with a glass of water and two aspirin.

"Better get those in now," he advised.

"Thank you," Greg said, truly grateful he was going to nip a massive hangover in the bud. He swallowed the pills and drank the water down. Sherlock was nowhere to be seen. The chair was empty.

"Did you need anything else?" John asked him.

"I'm knackered," Greg confessed. The alcohol made his limbs heavy and his thoughts slow, and he had been on his feet all day. He could probably fall asleep where he stood.

"Let's get you settled then."

John walked towards the stairs while Greg grabbed his bag and followed him up to his room. It was smaller, but it had a neat touch to it that the rest of the flat was clearly lacking. There was a writing desk with a lamp, which John flicked on. The bed was freshly made and smelled of clean cotton. Greg eyed it longingly.

"You can sleep in my bed, I'll bunk with Sherlock."

"Don't be daft, John, the couch is fine. I don't want to ..."

"– ... be kept up by him conducting experiments in the kitchen in the dead of night? Mauling his violin when he gets stuck? Trust me, it's fine. Besides, he actually tends to sleep a little when we..." John abruptly ended the sentence, blushed and busied himself fiddling with a book on his desk.

Greg heard the penny drop quite loudly in his own head. He had been off his game. Some Detective Inspector he was. He had just won about 70 quid at NSY.

"Since when has that been a thing, then?" he asked jovially. He gestured to John and vaguely downstairs. "Not that no one was speculating about it, but, you know..."

John still didn't turn around to face Greg. He felt like an idiot for asking, since John was so clearly uncomfortable with the subject.

"About a month, now. Still feels a bit fresh, but at the same time, it doesn't, at all. I know it sounds weird, but we just ... fit." John exhaled. "Sorry, that's probably too much information. I haven't told anyone – so far. I'm a bit embarrassed, actually, me telling everyone and their mum I'm not gay, and well, I wasn't, really, before, and now it would look like I've been denying him all the time and I feel awful about that and I just... needed to tell someone, I guess, to start off with, so..."

"John," Greg interrupted his rambling, touching his shoulder. "It's okay. I understand." John visibly relaxed a bit.

"You won't tell everyone, will you? God, you probably have a pool going at the Yard, don't you."

Greg bit his cheek from the inside. "No, don't be ridiculous," he protested. "It's not my thing to tell. You can do that, or not, but in your own time."

John pinched the bridge of his nose, and let out a strangled laugh. Finally, he turned around to Greg. "Blimey, and here we are talking about your problems all night and now I made it all about me."

"I'm glad you told me. It's about time you got your heads out of your arses, anyway. I'm happy for you both."

"Thanks." After a short silence, John inquired: "Was it that obvious?"

Greg grinned at John. "If you know him a little bit, yes. I've never seen him look at anyone like that. Like he looks at you sometimes." They fell silent for while, reminiscing. Greg squeezed John's shoulder encouragingly. "You're good for him. I know that. I just hope he's good for you, too."


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

Greg woke up the next morning at half past ten, feeling disoriented. It took him a moment to remember that he was at Baker Street and he had slept in John's bed last night. He had a headache and his back was still sore, but if it weren't for the aspirin John had given him he'd be feeling much worse.

Coming downstairs, he was greeted by his boxes and immediately felt angry again. John and Sherlock were up already. John was sitting at the kitchen table, reading a newspaper. And the shower was running, so Sherlock must be in it.

"Morning," Greg greeted John.

"Hey, sleep all right?" John said.

"Yeah, thanks. I think I passed out there after you left."

"You look much better now. Want some tea?"

"Sure."

John poured him a cup.

"I don't know how you take your tea?"

"Oh, just milk."

John made a face. "Yeah, I thought I might have to go in there again." He quickly opened the fridge without looking, dug out the carton purely by touch and prepared Greg's tea and popped in some toast. They sat down and had a late breakfast. Suddenly, the bathroom door burst open and Sherlock emerged, dressed in his blue silk robe. His head was wrapped in a white towel and he looked ridiculous.

Greg stifled a smile. "Hello," he said.

"Good morning, Lestrade," Sherlock answered haughtily and proceeded to his room, closing the door. After a minute, they heard the sound of a hair dryer.

"You know, if he doesn't do that, his hair looks like he … never mind, it looks very silly." John whispered conspiratorially. "If you want to have a shower, go ahead. I'll bring you some clean towels."

After Greg spent as long under the hot water as the boiler would permit him, he felt much better. He got dressed upstairs. John knocked on the door and entered.

"Are you decent? If you want, I'll help you unpack a little. You can use parts of my wardrobe. I don't have that many things to put in there, anyway."

They carried the boxes from downstairs until they crowded John's room. Sherlock didn't offer to help but paced up and down in the living room.

"Did you bring the case files, Lestrade?" he yelled after him while he was carrying a particularly heavy one.

"No!" Greg shouted back. When he was downstairs again to pick up the next one, he elaborated: "I just wrote a quick report last night. They'll have something proper on Monday. I'll let you have a look," he offered.

"You are all so slow," Sherlock commented. "How do you get anything done there?"

"It's my day off," Greg said defensively. "And you know, some people have weekends." Sherlock made a disgruntled sound at the notion of weekends.

"By the way, Sherlock, there's something I..."

"What is it," Sherlock interrupted and flung himself on the sofa.

"You keep calling me by my last name. But since I'm staying with you for a while, it feels weird. So do mind not doing that?"

"Of course, Gregory. Oh, you hate that," he corrected himself immediately after gauging Greg's reaction. "Yes, fine. Greg." Sherlock stretched on the sofa and reached for John's laptop.

"Thank you." At least he's acknowledging he knows my name, Greg thought to himself.

"What on earth, Greg!" John came down the stairs and held up a multi-colored button-down that would have felt right at home in the 70s. "Are you James May or something?" John giggled endearingly.

"Oi, put that down." Greg tried to snatch the offending garment from John.

"Who is that?" Sherlock asked.

"That bloke from Top Gear," John answered.

Sherlock stared at him blankly.

"You know, that show I like to watch sometimes? With the cars?" John tried. Greg couldn't help but grin at Sherlock's utterly blank expression. God forbid his formidable mind be polluted with pop culture.

"Never mind," John piped. "Are you coming, Greg? I made you some room."

"Sure." Greg picked up the last box and carried it upstairs.

Most of Greg's stuff actually fit in John's wardrobe. He prioritized and they stacked the boxes they didn't unpack next to it.

"I never knew I had so many clothes," Greg sighed. "I haven't seen half of these in years."

"You could donate some," John suggested. He sneezed.

"Bless you," Greg told him.

"Thanks," John muffled into his handkerchief. "It's really dusty here. I should clean." When Greg thought about John cleaning his room, in which he was staying now, he felt guilty.

"John, look," he said. "Thanks for having me, but I'm not staying for long. Please don't trouble yourself."

"It's no bother," John protested. "You can stay as long as you need to. I'm hardly up here anymore anyway."

Greg sat cross legged on the floor, exhausted from the unpacking already. "I don't want to get in your way," Greg demurred.

"You won't. We'll probably be so busy we'll hardly see each other. I'm on call at the surgery next week. When are you going back to work?" John asked.

"Monday," Greg said. "I got a whole weekend off. That happens once in a blue moon. The thing is, I don't know what to do with all that time anymore."

"Well, you're here. We can think of something to do, right?" John said cheerfully.

"Yeah, let's. Though drinking is out. I'm too old for this shit."

"Hey, that's my line," John chuckled.

"I'm older than you, so I get to use it."

"So what's a fun thing you haven't done in while?"

"Hmm," Greg thought about that a bit longer than he should have to. He couldn't go out and say 'sex' because that would be inappropriate. "I... used to do a bit of sports, that gets my mind off things. And I used to play some pool with my old mates. But with work, that rarely happens anymore."

"We could do that," John suggested. His face turned serious. "About what I told you last night," he began. "When you go back to work on Monday, you won't..."

"If you want me to keep my mouth shut about you two, then that's what I'll do." Greg emphasized.

John nodded. An awkward pause arose.

"Do you regret telling me? I can keep a secret, John."

"No, it's not that. I trust you." John sighed and leaned back against the wardrobe.

"But you're not feeling good about it, either," Greg observed.

"I'm afraid what will happen when they all know. I don't know how to deal with that," John confessed.

"With what, exactly?"

"You know, with people calling us faggots and not taking us seriously anymore and asking which one of us is the woman..."

Greg snorted involuntarily. "Well, if you want to get up into all that gender crap, you wouldn't have to ask. It's him, of course, he spends absurd amounts of money on his clothes."

John laughed.

"You don't have to be afraid, John. Most people are actually pretty okay with any sexual orientation."

"Really," John doubted. "Well, I was raised catholic. In a small town. Not that I cared much for either. My dad would freak out and disown me if he was still alive, god bless his reactionary soul. That's why Harry never told my parents. And my army mates... God, I don't even want to think about what they would have to say about me."

"It doesn't alarm people like it used to. They got used to it. We did a lot of work for that. There's still the odd jerk, but you know," Greg explained.

"You worked for that? How?"

"I went to a lot of demos in uni, campaigns and such. I'm bisexual myself."

John's jaw dropped. His mouth stood open but no words emerged. "No," he finally breathed.

"Erm, yes?" Greg was suddenly unsure. Was John that biased?

"But you were married. To a woman."

"Yes, so? I like both. Jodie's a gal, but there were people before her. It's the person that matters to me, not what's dangling or not dangling between their legs."

John shut his mouth with an audible click.

"I'm so sorry, Greg. I don't want to come off like a bigot or something. I'm still wrapping my head around this. Around the whole concept of... this." John was clearly embarrassed and out of his depth.

"Yeah, I suppose. It can be confusing," Greg conceded. Especially if people attempted to shove you into boxes your whole life and you continued their efforts on your own, long after they were gone. But he didn't voice that thought just now. John didn't need a lecture.

"Look, I want to be cool about all this, but I'm freaking out a little. I don't know how to go about this. I've never been with a bloke before. All I know is that I love Sherlock and I want to make him happy."

"Then focus on that, and fuck what other people think."


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

Greg felt no guilt about having a lie-in on Sunday. They had played pool until ten o'clock in the evening. Sherlock had won all games, hands down. He complained it was 'just geometry' and deemed it mostly dull. After getting back to Baker Street, Greg had slept like the dead, and still refused to get up even when sunlight through the curtains woke him. He had worked hard the past week, so he just turned around in John's bed a few times and dozed off again, blocking the light with a forearm flung over his eyes. Finally, he got up grudgingly because he had to piss. Greg slipped into track bottoms and a t-shirt and padded downstairs and relieved himself. In the kitchen he clicked on the kettle and began digging through some Erlenmeyer flasks, hunting for a clean mug.

Suddenly, a door banged shut. Then Greg heard the bathroom door lock click. So one of the two had gotten up as well. But then Greg heard muffled noises through the bathroom door in. He recognized John's voice. At first Greg thought John might be laughing, but who goes into the bathroom to have a good laugh? Was John okay? Was he hurt?

Greg immediately turned the kettle off and made a step into the direction of the hallway, but then Sherlock thundered into it, in a state of undress. And boy, did Greg have to try not to gawk at his pale chest and legs peaking out under his loosely tied blue silk dressing gown. Ignoring Greg, Sherlock tried opening the door. When it didn't move, he leaned against it.

"John."

No answer, but still those awful sobs, quieter now.

"John! I didn't mean to. I'd never... I'm sorry. Open the door?"

Greg thought he'd never see the day Sherlock apologized to anyone. What was going on here? But nothing happened, then it was completely silent.

"John, let me in."

Nothing.

"John."

No answer, but still those awful sobs, quieter now.

"John! I didn't mean to. I'd never... I'm sorry. Open the door?"

Greg thought he'd never see the day Sherlock apologized to anyone. What was going on here? But nothing happened, then it was completely silent.

"John, let me in."

Nothing.

"John!"

Sherlock turned around abruptly, his dressing gown flaring out around his thighs. He spotted Greg but decided to ignore him to jostle past him into the living room.

"Are you two all right?" Greg asked, concerned.

Sherlock didn't answer and returned with a set of lock-picking tools. He got to his knees and chose a tool which he then inserted in the lock.

"Sherlock, I want to be alone right now. Just give me a minute," John said through the door.

"Sherlock," Greg said quietly. The detective shot him a glare. Greg just shook his head as if to say no, don't do that, you'll regret this. Reluctantly, Sherlock stopped fiddling with the lock and just knelt on the floor. His shoulders slumped forward, his gown had opened and hung down his slender form. He looked vulnerable and confused. Greg put a hand on his shoulder tentatively. The silk felt incredibly soft and radiated Sherlock's body heat.

"Come on," he murmured and patted his shoulder awkwardly, "I have no idea what's going on, but if he wants a little breathing space, give him that." He tugged on Sherlock's arm until he got up and walked him over to the living room.

"Sit," Greg ordered, directing him to his black leather chair. Surprisingly, Sherlock did exactly that. He didn't flounce into it in his usual dramatic fashion. He just sat down, put his elbows on his knees, leaned forward and looked down at the floor, gaze unfocused. Attempting to establish a bit of normalcy, Greg went back into the kitchen and started up the kettle again. A moment later there were three cups of tea steeping on the counter. Greg brought one over to Sherlock and put it on the mantel piece beside him when he didn't react. He stopped by the bathroom and said: "Hey John, when you're ready, there's tea. Take your time." Greg went into the living room, cradling his own mug. They heard the shower being turned on. Greg chose a chair from the table, leaving John's chair untouched. The two were a bit territorial about their arm chairs.

"Want to tell me what happened?" he addressed Sherlock, who had curled up into himself, arms draped around his knees, which were drawn up to his chest. His curls were sticking out in all directions.

"I..." he cleared his throat and paused, looking at Greg and then away again. "I hurt John."

"How did you hurt him?"

"I attempted anal intercourse."

Greg swallowed, hard. No one but Sherlock would describe buggering his boyfriend that clinically and still make it sound sexy, with that voice. Hell. Greg quickly got his mind out of the gutter.

"So, I guess it didn't work out the way you wanted, then?"

"John was in pain. I... failed." Sherlock hid his head in his arms and knees.

"Did you stop when he told you to?"

"He didn't! But then he started crying and..." Sherlock still concealed his face and his shoulders trembled silently. Greg just waited, uncomfortable but letting Sherlock get it out of his system. He knew Sherlock and guessed comforting would not be accepted from him.

Sherlock's head shot up and Greg turned around when he heard the door to Sherlock's room open. John walked out out gingerly, looking disheveled and a bit red around the eyes. He was wearing his usual jeans and jumper, his hair still wet from the shower. Sherlock looked up at John cautiously. "I did not meant to hurt you, John." He sounded truly heartbroken.

John eyed him warily. "Yes, I know that, you stupid git. But it did hurt, you know. I'm not sure I can... do that."

"But I _researched_ it, John. That's how you do it."

"How did you research that?" John wanted to know.

"I watched a selection of gay pornography."

Greg nearly choked on his tea. "Look, I should better get upstairs and give you two some space, yeah," he spluttered and made for the door.

"No. Stay," Sherlock commanded. John shot Greg a helpless look, like he didn't know how to behave in this situation either.

"Why? You – "

"Is this not the correct source to research anal sex?" Sherlock interrupted.

"No!" Greg almost cracked up at the idea.

"Why?" Sherlock demanded to know.

"For starters, pornography is nothing like real-life sex. Things are ... disproportionate and unrealistic. And they almost always skip prep," Greg added. Why the editors chose to cut one of the sexiest bits, he'd never understand. It was always a highlight to Greg, slicking up and loosening his partner until he was ready for his... never mind.

"What's prep?" Sherlock inquired.

"Preparation. You need to stretch and relax the muscle a bit before you try to put anything dick-sized in there." Greg just truly realized how naively Sherlock approached sex with John if he had to explain that to him. Why was he explaining that to Sherlock? That was John's job.

"Teach me." Sherlock looked Greg squarely in the eyes.

"What?"

"You heard me."

"Why me? You know, there's, erm, … the internet."

"My previous research has not yielded the desired results. I need practical experience."

"Okay, wow. I can see why you would say that. Your 'research' wasn't very thorough though. There are some sites about safe sex and, you know, for anal play, if you want to me to point you in the right directions, I could..."

"I don't want to you to point me anywhere, Greg, I want you to show us how to do it."

Greg had a sudden vivid image of his fingers in Sherlock, writhing on the sheets, with John watching while he stroked his cock, ready to be buried balls-deep. Jesus. He needed to get his filthy mind under control.

"John mentioned you had lots of experience."

John shrugged apologetically and shot Greg a 'Sorry, we tell each other everything and he probably knew anyway' look.

"Maybe I do. Never mind that." Greg tried to be reasonable. "Maybe at this point in your relationship it's not such a good idea to get a third wheel attached. You can just ... experiment with each other. Isn't that enough?"

"Yes and no. I don't want to experiment on John."

"That's a new one," John half-snorted.

"It's not acceptable. Not when I hurt you in the process." Sherlock's gaze went soft as he regarded his lover. It was a rare glance of tenderness that was usually hidden from the rest of the world under a series of frowns and arrogantly raised eyebrows. John slid down on his knees to gather Sherlock in his arms.

"It's okay," John smoothed his hands down Sherlock's back and buried his nose in his curls. "You didn't mean to. I don't blame you."

Greg got up and left to give them some space. His head was swimming.


	6. Chapter 6

~John~

The day passed quickly. John was exhausted, so he decided to call it an early night. He had donned his usual boxers and a t-shirt. he still felt the remains of his hangover, despite the secret cure he had so boisterously promoted to Greg. John was done in after this stressful day, tired but still buzzing with nervous energy. A good night's sleep was in order though, he had to be fit for his shift at the surgery tomorrow.

Sherlock was still fully dressed, sitting upright against the headboard, his laptop on his knees. He probably wasn't going to sleep when John did, but John was used to that. Sherlock usually came to bed in the early hours of the morning, if at all. He was prone to simply collapse on the sofa while thinking. John still appreciated his presence beside him. He preferred for Sherlock to be there when he fell asleep, and since he had voiced that sentiment, Sherlock did him that favor. It felt like such a privilege not to lie in bed alone, as he had done so often, and wish for someone to be there with him.

Thinking of his bed upstairs and its current sole occupant, he sighed and looked at Sherlock. The blue-white glow of the screen illuminated his features. John turned onto to his side and touched Sherlock's slender left hand, which stilled.

"We should talk about Greg," John said.

"Yes," Sherlock admitted, his eyes never leaving the screen.

"I think you came on a bit strong today," John stated. "Also, you didn't ask me if I wanted this. What you proposed," he clarified.

"Oh," Sherlock made. There was a long, awkward pause. "Should I have?"

"Yes."

"It's a mutually beneficial arrangement," Sherlock maintained.

"It's still something you should talk to me about before you ask another person to give you... well, whatever you want to call that. I'm not sure what to think about that, honestly," John admitted.

"We have a problem, and there is a simple solution," Sherlock pointed out.

"You know, it isn't a problem for me. I'm fine. We don't have to... have sex that way. " John still felt an unpleasant twinge from their earlier attempt every time he moved. He shuddered to think of trying it again soon. Maybe it just wasn't his cup of tea.

Sherlock finally turned his intense gaze to John. "But I don't want to withhold any pleasure from you, John. I want to be able to satisfy you perfectly." John was oddly touched by Sherlock's earnest motivation. He should have anticipated that his perfectionism extended to their love life. "At the moment I don't possess the necessary experience," Sherlock continued. "Since we currently have an 'expert' living with us who does..."

As much as he could bring himself to understand Sherlock's reasoning, he still felt uneasy about dragging Greg into this. He had offered him a place to stay to recuperate from his relationship troubles, not to fix theirs.

"Have you even thought about if Greg wants this before putting him on the spot like that?" John interrupted.

"Oh, come on, it's obvious. He finds us both very attractive. And he's just had a considerable 'dry spell', I believe is the term." Sherlock looked proud at remembering an idiom and at applying it in the correct context.

"Okay, you I can understand. Everybody with eyes thinks you're gorgeous." John pulled Sherlock's hand to his mouth and kissed it. Sherlock hummed and unsuccessfully tried to hide a one-sided minuscule smile. "But me? I hardly think so. Anyway, how do you know that?"

"I saw you looking last night," Sherlock said, as if that was an answer to John's question.

"Looking where?" John wanted to know.

"At his arse. Everytime he was leaning over the pool table."

"What?" John felt himself blush fiercely. He turned away, embarrassed.

"Oh yes. Not a problem, John, I don't judge. You can look. But don't deny you looked."

"I'm sorry, Sherlock. I wasn't even... oh God." John hid his face in his palms.

"He looked, too."

"He what?!"

"At your arse, John. It's evident he wants you. He wants me, too. But he's too polite. Modesty is restrictive and dull."

"This is confusing," John confessed. He scrubbed his face, feeling its heat. "We're friends. Friends don't do that."

"We were 'friends', too, and we did that," Sherlock retorted.

"Fair point. And what are we now?"

"Partners. Still friends. Same as before. Only we give each other orgasms now and I get to touch you whenever I want." Sherlock did just that and brushed his fingertips along the hairs on John's arm. John shivered at the feathery touch and closed his eyes for a moment.

"Hmm. Right." He needed to choose his words carefully. "So we are in a relationship. We can't just go around and pick up people along the way."

"If three consenting adults want something, I don't see why they shouldn't get it," Sherlock objected.

"Because it complicates things. I mean sure, you can get off with someone and not waste a thought about it, but we know each other too well."

"But that's a plus in 'getting each other off'."

"Right, but we still have to work together. Won't it be awkward if we shag Greg and then meet him at a crime scene and... and everybody will know something is off."

"Everybody certainly won't. Those imbeciles wouldn't even notice if I came to a crime scene with my face covered in ejaculate."

Now here was a thought. John couldn't help but imagine Sherlock like that. His cock twitched, but he was too tired to be in the mood. "Don't give me ideas," he grumbled, turned around and snuggled up against Sherlock.

"I wouldn't mind trying that. It seems to be quite popular in pornography."

John buried his face on Sherlock's shoulder.

"How do I live with you," John mumbled. "Stop distracting me. Anyway, we were talking about Greg."

"Yes. You objected that having sex with Greg would complicate things, because _people_ would notice." John could hear the disdain dripping off the word people. "And I rebutted that argument because people are generally too stupid to notice anything. And you care far too much about what people think. Most don't."

"So what about Greg? Let's assume for a moment you are right... "

"I'm always right."

"Wrong. You thought I didn't want you for two bloody years, Sherlock."

Sherlock sniffed, his concession reluctant.

"Let's assume Greg wants this," John continued. "Where do we stand on that?"

"Excellent! We can proceed to fornication," Sherlock quipped, snapping his laptop shut.

"No, I mean, what's his role in all this? We're partners, right? So one day we say 'All right, Greg, let's shag!' and the next day it's back to 'Detective Inspector Lestrade, please bring us some cases'?"

"Maybe. I thought we could just have lots of sex until one party feels that was enough sex."

"That's just weird. How would he feel?"

"I don't know how he feels, John. He'll answer yes or no. It's his decision."

"I still don't think it was a good idea to ask him like that," John demurred.

"How else could I have asked him?"

"Well, for starters, talk to me first if you invite someone into our bed. The way I look at someone doesn't mean it's okay. I get a say in that." John found that his voice suddenly had quite a bit of steel in it.

"Very good," Sherlock answered.

John waited. "Well?"

"What?"

"Aren't you going to ask me?"

"Oh. Do you want to have sex with L... with Greg and me?"

"I'll have to think about it."


	7. Chapter 7

After John and Sherlock had gone to bed early, Greg decided he would do the same. He had an early start tomorrow, after all. So he brushed his teeth and trudged up to John's room. He dug around in John's wardrobe for a clean t-shirt and comfortable boxer shorts and undressed quickly. Slipping between the soft cotton sheets, he savoured their clean smell. And maybe there was a hint of John's smell in there, too.

Greg wasn't tired at all. He had slept in late, and after ... well, that was a weird day if he had ever seen one. After that conversation he had hardly known how to interact with John and Sherlock. Thankfully, John had tried to act like nothing out of the ordinary had happened and had tried to establish some normality at Baker Street. Then Mrs. Hudson had come up with freshly baked biscuits. Apparently it was her Sunday ritual, as she told them in so many words. Everyone had been distracted by tea and small talk, which Sherlock had hated but he had eaten at least a dozen biscuits, anyway. John had nudged them in his direction unobstrusively.

It was hard to look at them both, exchanging little discreet touches all day. They were tantalizing together. They embodied all the intimacy he had lost. Greg was torn. He was happy for them and he was jealous of them at the same time. Not that he begrudged them their happiness – but he wanted that, too. And it was even more difficult looking at it from the outside.

He found that a tiny part of him had retained an admiration of Sherlock through the years that wasn't always entirely professional, though he never indulged it. Greg was of the opinion that anyone who didn't at least fall a little bit in love with the remarkable, tall detective at first sight was either blind or lying. At least until Sherlock opened his sensual mouth to dissect someone's life with scathing observations. Most people snapped out of it then. But Greg hadn't.

Now that he was unattached again, he was free to do whatever he wanted – and pursue whomever he wanted. But Greg had been telling himself for years that it was a spectacularly bad idea to mess around with Sherlock and he had kept it up, because he was right. Not to mention married. And now John had Sherlock, and Greg's common sense couldn't completely assuage the tiny sting of disappointment he'd felt at John's confirmation of that fact.

So what the hell happened today? Sherlock had candidly asked Greg to show him how to have sex. The way he had said "teach me" could have been taken straight out of the corny porn he had most likely watched for his "research". Was Sherlock trying to manipulate him? He genuinely cared for John, he had demonstrated that today. But did he care for Greg, too? Was he just planning to use him as a means to an end? John would never allow it. Probably. Best to forget it had happened at all.

Still, Greg couldn't help but imagine John and Sherlock together. How would their first kiss have taken place? Maybe they had come off a case, still strung out and grinning, crashing their lips together enthusiastically? Or maybe one night Sherlock was bored and decided to try something new and seduced John, who had told Greg that he wasn't into blokes before? Would their first time have been frantic or unhurried? More like a quick handjob in an alley or a good long snogging session on the sofa that ended with hands down their pants? Or perhaps they rubbed their cocks against each other until they both gasped and shuddered. Or maybe Sherlock used his mouth on John, those ridiculous lips wrapped around his cock …

Greg tried to clamp down on the uninvited images rapidly flooding his mind. He had to think about something else, something unsexy … But it was already too late. He was hard. In John's bed. Hell, that was inappropriate. Had John been tossing and turning at night, unable to stop thinking about Sherlock's pale skin, the way his muscles stretched under it? Had he touched himself here, thinking about touching Sherlock? Did he come in these sheets ...

Greg finally gave up. He turned onto his back and thrust his hand into his boxers. His cock was hard and ready. He inhaled as he curled his fingers around his glans and squeezed. God, that felt good. Working his thumb over it, he smeared around the wetness he found there. Oh, but he could do with a mouth on him, anything, as long as it was hot and wet and willing. He tried thinking about someone giving him head. That one guy he met at a club once. Greg had been 21. They had snuck off to the loo where he had taken Greg's cock into his mouth and made all sorts of filthy noises while he sucked him off.

Greg started to masturbate himself with small, rapid jerks, imagining fucking his mouth. But the face that had been eroded by too much time morphed into Sherlock's, bright grey eyes staring up at him. Breathing heavily, he stopped moving. Greg was ashamed. This was so wrong.

But Sherlock had basically invited Greg into their bed. Of course, he wouldn't take them up on the offer. It was just proof that Sherlock had a lot to learn about relationships yet. But one could think, right? The possibilities … As long as this didn't bleed over into his life, Greg could still imagine what it would be like to watch them fuck. That didn't hurt anyone, right? It would be his secret. And maybe he just needed to get this out of his system so he could make rational decisions again.

How would John's arse look naked and stuffed with cock? Sherlock had wanted to fuck him today, but with a little preparation, John would have been okay. Greg could help with that. He would tell him to lie down on the bed, legs spread wide. John would look spectacular that way. Greg would spread lube on him and slip his fingers in carefully, telling Sherlock what to look out for. Maybe he would tell Sherlock to try it himself and let him squeeze three fingers into John's hole before even allowing him to think about putting his cock in. By the time John would be wet and worked open sufficiently, maybe Greg could suck Sherlock's cock for a bit, getting him nice and slippery.

Greg wanked himself faster.

Sherlock would taste great, the musky manly smell filling his nose while he licked and sucked his prick. Maybe Sherlock would even seize his head to show Greg he enjoyed it. Later, Greg would tell John to get on his knees and guide Sherlock into John's dripping hole. He would talk John through the initial discomfort and tell Sherlock to keep pushing until he bottomed out, and keep very still. Maybe John would screw his eyes shut and Greg would pet him while he got used to the sensation of having his arse filled. When Sherlock would start to move, small thrusts at first, Greg would kneel beside him and admire the point where they were joined, lube glistening on John's cheeks and his hole stretched around Sherlock's cock. Gradually, they would pick up speed, and soon enough, maybe John would find that he liked it, his erection hanging heavy between his legs and swinging slightly while Sherlock fucked into him.

Maybe Greg would start to jerk himself off watching them. Maybe he would ejaculate all over John's arse, providing additional, sticky lubricant for them while Sherlock made his final, hard thrusts into John.

Greg's hand flew over his cock briskly and firmly.

Or maybe, when Sherlock was done, he would allow Greg to have a go at John. He would slip his hard and aching cock into John's hole, fucked open and soaked with Sherlock's cum. John would moan at the repeated intrusion but Greg would angle himself so that he hit his prostate with every thrust and fuck John and himself to orgasm ... Greg turned around in John's bed and thrust his hips urgently while he fucked his own hand. With a moan muffled by the pillow, his orgasm tore through him and he felt warm semen pulsing into his hand and his shorts. He lay there for what felt like an eternity, riding out aftershocks. Greg hadn't come like that in ages.

With a groan, he disentangled his hand from his soiled boxers and turned to get up. He hoped he hadn't got anything on John's sheets. Cleaning himself with his boxers wasn't perfect, but he didn't have anything else at hand. Greg considered going down to the bath room – he had made a right mess of himself. But he decided against it. He couldn't have another shower in the middle of the night, that was too suspicious. Besides, if he was unlucky and he encountered Sherlock, he was going to see right through him. There was always something. Greg's cheeks were already flushed, but now he turned crimson at the idea of Sherlock finding out he had just had a magnificent wank thinking about them. Hell, he would have to control himself severely if he was going to get through his stay here intact. Greg went to the wardrobe and put on clean boxer shorts. His legs were wobbly and he was glad when he was in bed again. At least he would be able to fall asleep quickly now, and not stay up thinking about what he couldn't have.


End file.
